


Ashes

by looneyngilo2



Category: Plata Quemada | Burnt Money (2000)
Genre: Kink Bingo 2013, M/M, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:24:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looneyngilo2/pseuds/looneyngilo2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the end, it's the end...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes

“We’re going to die,” said Angel, pouring the whiskey down onto the floor, letting his sweaty legs become wet with it, some of the stolen money slowly moving in the liquid. “We’re going to die in a fire.”

“No, we’re not -” said Cuervo, pulling down the handkerchief that had protected him against the gas the police had thrown into the apartment they’d locked themselves in.

“The voices in my head say so - they whisper it, they’re giggling” said Angel.

“Stop! Nene, tell your fucking lover to stop!” said Cuervo, throwing a glass against a wall.

“It’s true,” said Nene, not moving, not even flinching when the glass broke. “We’re not getting out of here alive. They have us surrounded.”

“No, no, you fuckers may die, but I’m -,” said Cuervo, the soot and dirt of the room covering him, but not hiding how his eyes shone with a fervent hope of survival.

******

Nene dragged himself across the wooden floor, near Angel, moving around the spilled food, the burnt dollars, the window glass, the torn and dirty clothes, the whiskey, the water from the overflowing bathtub, the random bullets and the bits of drywall that had fallen.

He didn’t want to look at Angel, he just wanted to be close to him, their sweaty arms just grazing each others, Angel’s hand placed gently between them.

He sat there, feeling the heat from the muggy summer day, from Angel’s body. He hadn’t been close to him, not in a long time: spiritually, Angel had absorbed ideas of doom and hell; mentally, he was battling the demons that told him to cut himself open; physically, he hadn’t kissed or fucked Nene in months.

“I can’t breathe,” Nene said, stretching his neck.

There was a silence, then “Nene. Nene, look at me.”

He did, and he could see the fear in Angel’s dark eyes, he could see that hope had left him a long time ago.

“The voices are scared,” said Angel. “The fucker’s don’t want to die. They’re finally scared.”

“So are we,” said Nene, smiling.

Angel looked at him then, and suddenly, Nene realized something: his eyes weren’t manic, like before, there wasn’t a far away look, far from him. No. Angel was here.

He bit his lips to stop himself from crying, but he couldn’t look away from Angel.

He looked at him until he felt his soul calm.

“Your eyes, Nene. They’re dead.”

“I know,” he said. When his soul had quieted, hope had abandoned him, but so had fear. His body, seeing that death was a certainty, was unsure how to react. And so it had decided to play at being dead, or perhaps, to accept death and make it gradual. His legs had lost their strength, his heart beat slowly, each breath was hard to take, his skin already cold.

Nene wondered if his body would kill him before the police got the chance to finish him off. When they came in, guns ablaze, shooting at the walls, blowing up the windows, hoping these bastards had survived the gas and bullets so they’d get to butcher them and drag them to court, would they then find Nene’s body, cold, unresponsive, no injury visible, because his soul had accepted his death and flown off in wings of ash, floating in the air like the burnt money?

It was not natural for someone to know when they would die.

The soul would be insulted and abandon its host.

Would he feel it tearing from his bones, his lungs and body becoming lighter, becoming cold, his heart turning hard? Would peace come then, with death?

Or would his love for Angel, his worry, his anger at not being able to protect him, would his love, still like an angry bird hitting itself against his ribcage, would his love trap his soul and make him stay here with Angel until they died?

Would it make him cry and try to hold him? Would it make him pray for mercy? Would his soul want to save Angel?

“But you’re not afraid. I’m glad you’re not afraid”  said Angel. “I saved your soul, the way the voices told me, by not fucking you, by praying, by apologizing for everything we did.”

Nene closed his eyes and stayed still for a long moment, feeling Angel leaving him again. “Yes, you did. And I’ll die in peace.”

Or at least not in fear of hell. Even now he wasn’t afraid of hell. He could feel the flames of hell licking at his feet, and he imagined them radiating up his body, overtaking him. He’d murdered, he’d stolen, he’d fucked other men’s wives, he’d fucked the men in public restrooms, he’d fallen in love with a man.

Hell had claimed him a long time ago.

“Let me see,” he said to Angel, gently removing the washcloth Angel had pressed against his leg, in a half-hearted attempt to stop his bleeding from a stray bullet.

The slow trickle of blood began to pool on the floor, and Nene dipped his fingers in it, dark, dark and sticky, the precious blood that kept Angel alive - rubies, melted rubies.

“Nene -”

He looked up and kissed Angel, a long, languid kiss. Not desperate, no need for a show, he wanted to keep his taste on his lips forever, but there was no need to mark him, to bite him, to leave his lips red. It was just a taste, already almost a memory.

He tasted tears, sweat, even the dirt of the room. He imagined he tasted the dusty roads of their trips, the salt of the ocean they’d swam in, the gunpowder flying during a successful heist, the sweat of sex, he imagined that the wetness and shivers of Angel’s skin were from exhaustion, were from lovemaking, not from fear, not from the blood.

 

He imagined they were anywhere, anywhere but here.

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill the "wet, messy, dirty" Kink Bingo square and the "Separation and Reunion" Valentine Bingo square.


End file.
